Rhindon
by BrokenKestral
Summary: A one-shot from the perspective of Peter's sword, detailing its purpose and its service; the life of a sword.


**Disclaimer: placed in Lewis's Narnia, and inspired by Tim Burton's **_**Alice in Wonderland,**_** where the Jabberwocky speaks directly to a sword.**

**Beta'd by the very generous trustingHim17, who also let me know that talking swords come from Norse myths. Frey has a sword capable of fighting on its own, and some myths include a sword that could talk to its wielder. Since I found that really cool, I'm sharing it. :)**

OOOOO

The hand that grasped me was the hand of a boy. Clumsy, reverent, and slow to pull me from my sheath, the hand nevertheless held promise. It wielded with humility, with a readiness to be taught. It was the hand of the not-yet-crowned King Peter, the hand of a boy with three siblings to defend. The hand of a boy with an evil queen chasing him, and he was not yet ready to fight her. I was given to that hand by Father Christmas, who warned the future king it would soon be time to put me to use. I was ready.

He drew me first in defense of his sister - fumbling, shaking, wrapped tightly enough to be determined even when afraid—and my shining metal kept the wolf at bay for those few seconds the king needed. Then the wolf lunged, and I sunk into the hide of a wolf, ending the life of one who would harm Narnia. He held me in his hand, shaking, as his sisters came down; already he knew to drop me was to be helpless. He forgot, boy, young for a king, to clean me; and Aslan set that right. By me, my prince won his spurs.

I stayed sheathed but for practice. Through the coming days, the meetings, the daily greetings from Dryad and Centaur, I was sheathed. During the nights the future king slept, worn out, I stayed by his bed. Then came the day I was needed again.

Jadis. Skilled with my kind, quick, deadly, leading an army who would take the life of all I fought for. My king - still that boy's hand! - drew me and we fought as one, flashing, thrusting, meeting steel, iron, and leather and cutting it down. All who rebelled against Aslan's king died, till we faced Jadis herself. Faster, faster, faster, my king! Up, and down, and shield! Clash, clash, thrust! I was not enough, he was not enough, to break through her guard. But by Aslan's power, nor could she break ours. And Aslan Himself came and ended her. My battle ended soon after that, and my king stooped, wiping me on the grass, before he wiped even his own brow, and then he took me to Aslan.

There were more battles, throughout my king's reign. His fingers grew longer, his hand broader, but I was made to fit him and that power remained in me*. We fought those at Narnia's borders, the evil that crept into his kingdom, and each time we won. Each time the two of us fought as one. Each time I was given the honour of being my King's means of victory, and his greatest physical defense.

Till the day he left. He was hunting that day with his siblings, and for once I was not by his side. Aslan must have made it so; I do not know if the king needed me, where he went. The day they came to strip his chamber, I was taken with reverent hands and placed beside other objects I had once seen beside me in a bag on the Giver's sleigh.

So all of them were gone.

And with them gone, my purpose was gone too. A sword is nothing without the hand that wields it.

For now.

So I waited.

* * *

Light. I woke; I had been sheltered in a chamber that allowed no rust nor softening of my edge. I lay, waiting still.

The light was small, and strange. It moved unlike the torches I had known.

But the _voices_. They were ones I knew. They came closer, closer - they were looking for us, the objects beside me and myself. Then, a few steps closer, I was _found_.

And the hand that grasped me was the hand of a boy. Firm, with remembered skill, the fingers adjusting once again to my hilt. Called back once again; calling me with his touch. My King looked at me and said, "This is my sword, Rhindon; with it I killed the wolf."**

The tasks my King performed for the next few days needed no sword, such as gathering apples, making fires, and speaking with his siblings. But it was good to be by his side.

It was good to have a purpose once again.

And for that purpose to be Narnia's good.

A dwarf came, and after he came, with him we went, to the defense of Narnia. During the travel, the trip, the lost directions, the failures, and my King's humility before Aslan after his mistakes, I waited. But this was waiting with hope, knowing it would be _soon_.

And it was. My King went to help Narnia's King, another boy-king, Caspian, and found in the haven of our friends not safety, but battle. He drew me once more, we fought as we used to, as one. We finished and his enemies lay dead and his own people safe, but for a single bite.

For Narnia once again.

He cleaned me, sheathed me, and did not draw me again, till a different kind of battle. A battle against a pretender king, one not worthy to carry steel. A man with a full sword, only drawing it because the hand that grasped me was the hand of a boy. But this boy was Narnia's High King, wielding me as a knight and a king, steady in the long, drawn-out battle. A battle we fought not by our strength but by our enemy's weakness.

And then the Pretender fell, but not by our hand - the craven cowards he led stabbed him where he lay. A swift stroke, in the back, and the pretender died, and the cowards attacked us. My purpose had come.

It came, and it went swiftly, and my King was standing at the end with the others, and he wore me through the feast that Aslan made for us, and we celebrated, and he slept. The next morning Aslan called him, him and his sister, and I went with him at his side. Aslan said his purpose in Narnia was fulfilled. And he took me off, with his clothes, and changed back to the clothes of a boy, just a boy - a king and a boy. Before he went, he did one last thing.

He gave me to the new king. For I am a gift.

* * *

The new king had the hand of a boy. Years passed, and I was more often worn in peace than wielded in war. The new King took me to the world's end, and drew me against pirates, invisible enemies we made peace with, a sea serpent, and even once on the Lone Islands as a show of strength. When he returned from his travels one hand rested on me and the other held the hand of his soon-to-be bride.

I served him, and he served Narnia, and for years that was enough.

Till one day, when his son was young, old enough for a sword, and his father passed me on. A gift, for the hand of a boy. He grasped me with the eagerness of a prince following a legend. His hand had so much promise, if tempered with wisdom.

But he lost me before I ever found out. I trust him to Aslan's care, to temper, to teach endurance, to suffer sorrow. But I was taken from him, him willingly loosening his grasp, to the hand of one of Jadis's kind. I burned her and she dropped me, at a fountain that only offered sorrow.

I waited again.

* * *

The hand that grasped me was the hand of a merchant, pulling me as I sliced the weeds grown over me and was free. But I was not given, and the hand of a merchant cut himself on my blade. Cursing with the name of a vile god, he shoved me among his things. He could not hold me long, and he sold me.

The hand that grasped me was the hand of a man, and he at least understood me, for on the morrow he gave me as a gift, into another's hand.

The hand that grasped me was the hand of a boy, untried, untrained. A fisheman's son, whose father let him dream. But I was not made for dreams, and when he drew me the third time, shaking, afraid, he was not ready. Pirates came to his home shores and he drew me to defend them. So valiant, but foolish. He should have run. Even I could not help him against all the six he faced, and one of those worthless traitors knew a good blade. He took me from the limp boy's fingers and stuck me through his belt. He dared not use me. Two years later he gave me to his son.

Again the hand that grasped me was that of a boy, son of a Calormen pirate. The son of Narnia's enemies, too young to fight. I knew not what my purpose was now. The pirate found favor with the Tisroc (who would die shortly on a good Narnian blade), and advanced in his court. He commanded his son to put away my shining steel and learn to use a curved Calormen scimitar.*** The son obeyed, dutiful to his father, but still came for me when he wanted to dream of fighting brave battles. His heart burned to have a god he could love, a god of love.

He grew and entered the army, still calling on Tash and seeking him. I was wrapped up in his belongings as he was commanded to go to Narnia, go in peace and declare his god and my God one. Emeth, brave soldier and yet a Calormen, set me aside again at his Captain's command, and I saw Narnia's end from the barracks the soldiers hid inside. I had waited in vain.

Or so I thought, watching the great creatures get closer. But a quick hand, a merry hand grasped me. I knew this hand. It had held me out to the hand of a boy before he became High King; it was the hand that gave me first. Aslan keeps all good things in His paws, and none are ever destroyed, but brought home.

And the hands that gave me first gave me once again to the High King, though swords would be needed no longer. My edges no longer cut, my purpose was no longer to make war, but by me King Peter had done his work and done it well. For the rest of eternity, my purpose remained to remind all who saw me with my King that Aslan called us to fight, then called us home.

OOOOO

*I'm aware there's stories of the kings changing swords as they outgrew them, but I always preferred to believe the sword grew with the king, so slowly few noticed. It was made for him, a tool for his reign, and I wanted him to keep it.

**Peter's statement is quoted from _Prince Caspian_, and therefore I didn't come up with it.

***In _The Last Battle_ King Tirian has to teach Eustace how to use a Calormen sword because curved swords are handled differently; I don't see a straight blade being accepted at a Calormen court.


End file.
